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And I was a very sought after clickster, mainly for the flesh stuff, but also for more "straight" pictures, too.The name I worked under was Richard Patterson, you've seen loads of my work if you've seen back numbers of Mayfair and Escort magazine from that period. If the lady was turning it up, who would be a cad and decline? So anyway, here I am sitting in the little kitchenette we called "The Savoy Grill", sucking on a Lucky Strike – shoot, I used to think I was cool smoking those fuckin' awful things – and sipping a bloody awful instant coffee while doing the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword (I was a gun at 'em, still am) when my gofer comes in with the latest pile of magazines from our little newsagent's down Wardour Street.I only glanced at the accompanying copy, but one line said something to the effect that "I like this outfit, I can have fun in it without taking it off, if you get my point". " But instead of picking out the required item of sexy apparel, she walked on past the racks to the door, swung the "Open" sign around so it showed "Closed", drew the drapes on the door's glass panels and walked back to us.I certainly got her point, because she was showing off her tits and a dark-haired pussy, and so did Pat Wynn. "Don't want to be disturbed if madam's going to model something risque, do we?" laughed the kid, who looked to me to be around 18, 19 at the absolute top upper limit."Precisely, you've got it," smiled the busty bird with me.Oh, no one calls me Richard by the way, except "She who must be obeyed" when she's really pissed at me. And I know what you're asking – is it true you got to fuck a lot of nubile little totty in your day, Rick? Couldn't go round hurting their feelings, could you? Jackie, that was his name, see, dumps a pile of skin mags on the table, says "Here's the latest pussy publications, Rick", in his thick Scottish accent – I wouldn't dare try to copy it here – and helps himself to a Coke.

Likes hot chocolate, dogs that don't bite and long walks on the moors. And don't go on about that figure being meaningless and it's all to do with the width of the lady's back, or crap like that. So I whistled, or something, and Jackie peered over my shoulder and he whistled too, the filthy little pervert. She also wore black stockings held up by a slim garter belt, and had high heels. And she was also shown in silky, slinky black satin, and she had a cheeky smile which sort of said "I know what YOU'RE thinking, you naughty boy! Just looking at her made me go wobbly at the knees and hard somewhere else! Now, while I was a very good photographer of the naked, and sometimes-not-so-naked, female form, I was an absolute fucking genius at working a telephone. 'Aunty's gonna flog you, but first aunty's gonna fuck you', look." Camilla laughed. Only I think it's more 'So erect – amazing' than us." My contact was using the old anagram – and a fucking good one if you ask me – for Escort magazine and I tended to agree, but pointed out a younger woman had appeared in Mayfair a matter of a few months before in just such an outfit.

Luckily, so did Pat, but I'm getting ahead of my story. Over-priced, rent-wise, too cold in winter and too hot in summer, but it was in a terrific location, just off Wardour Street, close to some great restaurants, good strip clubs and filthy book shops.

Haven't lived in London or England for that matter for nearly 25 years – it is still the same? High stud to the ceiling, plenty of leather chairs and couches, tables, equipment – a lot of the pictures involved bondage, whips, you get the picture?

When Camilla and I had got the niceties out of the way, she snapped into business mode. "You wanna shoot it right between those massive mammaries, don't you? "I can't give you Pat's number, as you well know, but what I can do is give her yours. I almost jumped out of my skin every time the fucking phone rang, but it was never the lovely mature madam. "Er, sure, it's a shop that sells sexy lingerie in the Old Brompton Road, South Kensington, about a two-minute walk from the South Ken tube station," I told her. "OK, big boy, let's meet there – outside South Ken tube station, I mean – at 11 tomorrow morning. Looked fucking good, even if I say so myself, and no, there's nothing queer about me.

" "Camilla," I chided, "please, such disgusting thoughts." The woman chuckled. "She was the oldest woman in any shoot for us for years," she told me. I think she was the best in the mag this issue." "She's the best in the mag, ever," I corrected. And then, if she calls you, well, over to you." "Camilla, how can I thank you enough? Finally, just as I was about to call it a day on Friday afternoon – Jackie had left around lunchtime for the afternoon express to Glasgow from King's Cross - and I was pondering a quick meal at a Wimpey's and then off to the Nell Gwynne strip club in Dean Street to see if there was anything remotely photographable dancing there that evening, she rang! "Now, let's meet and let's get a naughty outfit for me to wear. I wore a smart, open-necked white shirt, a brown leather jacket I'd bought at North Shore Leather in San Francisco a couple of years before, blue Levis and what passed for "fuck me" shoes in 1979 – white, with brass buckles.